The Frost Child (5 page)

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"Then maybe it is just a storm. The weather's been strange since last year."

"I heard them!" She stared at Owen.

"Sorry. Every time I think about the Harsh I get worried they'll come after me for killing their king." Owen stared moodily out into the snow.

"They were there, Owen."

"I believe you."

He made tea and found some biscuits in a tin under the table. They were a little bit stale but Cati and Owen ate them anyway. Then they sat in silence, listening to the wind outside.

"Owen?" Cati's voice seemed to come from under the sleeping bag.

"Yes?"

"Do you know a terrible thing?"

"What?"

"Even though the Harsh are coming, I'm kind of glad."

"Glad? About the Harsh?"

"But it means that there'll be a few people about the place--we'll have to wake the Resisters. There'll be things happening. Do you ever get lonely?"

"Lonely? I kind of like being on my own, but it's not like being the Watcher. Besides, I'm at school, and there's my mother...."

Owen suddenly realized just how solitary Cati's life as the Watcher must be--looking after the sleeping Resisters and the Workhouse on her own day after day.

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"Tell me what you've been doing all year," he said hesitantly. And she started to tell him about the patrols, and the long nights when she stood guard on the Workhouse battlements because something had told her there was danger nearby. How she would wake fearful in the night and hold conversations in her head with the Sub-Commandant, her father, pretending that he was alive again. He had been the Watcher before her.

Owen didn't interrupt. It was rare for Cati to admit to fear and loneliness. Since her father had been lost following the Harsh's first attack, she had been more and more driven by her sense of duty. She talked on while the snow fell on the perspex over their heads and the stove hissed gently. Owen found himself talking about the years after his own father had gone missing and his mother had been in a fog, so he'd had to look after her. How he'd been treated as an outsider at school and had always felt different.

Afterward they would both think of that evening, the storm raging outside and darkness falling, two friends poised on the cusp of great events, sharing simple things until, at the last, the candles guttered and went out and they fell asleep, Cati in the sleeping bag and Owen with his head on her knee.

Owen woke before Cati. The first thing he noticed was the silence. The storm had passed. Somehow during the night he had pulled a blanket over himself, but he was still cold. He was sure that something else had woken

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him. Slipping out from under the blanket, he went to the entrance and stepped out.

The world had been transformed. Stars glittered, hard and cold, in a black sky, and moonlight fell on a landscape turned white, trees and walls outlined in snow, with wind-sculpted drifts piled against banks and hedges. He breathed in and the air seared his lungs. And as he looked up toward the distant mountains he saw great bands of color, shimmering and eerie, high in the northern sky. The northern lights!

Then he heard a voice, carrying across the snowy fields in the clear still air--his mother calling him. He felt a pang of guilt. He could hear the anxiety in her voice. He felt a movement beside him. Cati had come out of the Den.

"She must be worried sick," Cati said. "We'd better go to her."

"We?" Owen said.

"The time for hiding in the shadows has passed, I think," Cati said, "if the Harsh are back. Besides, your mother is from Hadima. I don't think anyone could get mad at me for consulting her."

"Consulting her?"

"On whether I should wake the Resisters immediately and get the Workhouse ready for war."

It was as if the lonely, uncertain girl of the previous night had never been. Cati set off determinedly through the snow. Owen ducked back into the Den. When he emerged the Mortmain and his grandfather's maps were tucked safely in his jacket.

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The snow was deep and powdery and hard to walk in. It had drifted chest high in places. Their breath came in great plumes that dissipated in the night air. Once they had crossed the river Owen shouted to tell his mother that he was safe.

"That'll tell any enemy where we are," he said, panting with effort as they plowed through the drifts.

"All they have to do is follow our tracks anyway," Cati said, turning to look at the furrows they had made in the pristine snow.

They were both panting when they got to the top of the field. Owen's mother was waiting there, worry etched on her face.

"I saw you disappear in the storm," she said.

"All I had to do was follow the slope of the hill." Owen stamped his boots on the stone step. "I was bound to hit the river sometime."

But you reached the river exactly where the bridge was
, Cati thought.
You navigated your way to it
.

"Cati!" Martha said, the real delight in her voice changing almost instantly to scolding. "Look at you! Soaked. And you're out in the snow! Quick, inside."

Martha ushered them in.

"I'm not being an old hen," she explained, chasing Cati into the bedroom with some of Owen's clothes. "It's more than just a cold night out there. Those aren't normal temperatures. It feels like ... like the Harsh."

"I think they're coming." Owen watched his mother

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carefully. Like Cati, she had been attacked by the Harsh, and had a trace of cold in her bones.

Owen told her what Cati had said about hearing Harsh voices. When Cati came out of the room, Martha quizzed her at length. Owen couldn't keep the grin off his face at the sight of the Resister girl out of uniform in jeans and a sweatshirt. But Martha's face was full of concern.

"Perhaps the storm has only happened here...."

She turned on the radio and they listened to the news. The signal was much fainter than usual. It seemed that the storm had struck all over the world. Power stations had closed down in some places. There were reports of seas freezing and of whole cities being cut off. Some roads and airports were closed, although locally roads remained open. Farther north, whole regions had not been heard from. Martha turned the radio off and they sat in silence. Then Owen stood up.

"What are you doing?" Cati asked.

"Going out to the
Wayfarer
. I have to find out what's happening."

"Should we not wake the Resisters first?" Martha looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"But we don't know that the Harsh are actually coming."

"There were voices in the storm, Owen," Cati said grimly. "They're coming."

"When we wake the Resisters we need to tell them what they're facing. We need to know what the danger is," Owen said stubbornly.

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"I don't think it's a good idea--" Cati began, but Martha interrupted.

"No. You should go, Owen. The Resisters will appreciate anything you can do for them. But you must take Cati with you."

"Right," Owen said. "Cati can come." A light shone in his eyes at the prospect of sailing the
Wayfarer
.

"I'll go put the Mortmain in place," he said, and raced out the door.

Cati frowned as soon as Owen was gone. "I still think we should wake the Resisters."

"Perhaps you're right." Martha looked after Owen. "But I don't think that caution alone will win this battle with the Harsh, nor force of arms. But perhaps out there in time something may be learned that will give us the key to victory. And if we are to win, Owen must be confident at the helm of the
Wayfarer
. Besides," she said, smiling, "I trust you to bring him back safely."

"But I'm the Watcher," Cati protested. "I should stay."

"There is more to watching than just guarding the Workhouse. You must go with him."

Half an hour later they were standing beside the
Wayfarer
. Owen could feel a tight knot of nervous excitement at the back of his throat. The first time he had sailed the craft he hadn't really grasped the enormity of what he was doing, but this time he knew what lay ahead.

"Come on," Cati said, shaking him, "standing around worrying isn't going to help." She clambered over the

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gunwale and stood on the deck, looking as if she owned the craft. That was enough for him. He jumped over the rail. When he landed he could feel a little shiver of recognition in the boat's timbers. He took out the Mortmain and slipped it into the hole where it belonged. The dented brass ring lit up. The faint markings on its surface that had looked like scratches now appeared as deeply etched symbols.

"Does anybody have a plan, by the way?" Cati said.

"I don't think we can plan," Owen said. "We just go out there and see what we can find."

The
Wayfarer
trembled, then slowly and breath-takingly rose from the ground.

"The boat isn't going to let us hang around," Cati said. Owen looked down at his mother. She was already ten feet below.

"Take care," Martha called out. "I will keep watch." Owen waved in response and grabbed the tiller. The
Wayfarer
forged through the air, rising steadily over the snowbound landscape. Nothing could be more beautiful, Cati thought. She turned to look at Owen. The worry in his eyes had been replaced with excitement. With a flick of his wrist he turned the
Wayfarer
so that she was heading straight into the heart of the northern lights.

Martha looked after them for a little while, then fetched her coat. She had work to do. She walked into town, slipping on the frozen path in her hurry. If the

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Harsh were going to invade, then the people had to be got out. The Harsh would not allow civilians to stand in their way.

She feared that she might have to persuade the people of the town to leave, but when she reached the square she was met by a motley convoy of old buses. The buses were already full of old people, and children were running around in delight, throwing snowballs at each other.

Martha caught sight of Mr. Mulligan, the head of Owen's school. He looked tired and worn, but his face brightened when he saw Martha.

"The government ordered us to evacuate this morning," he said. "There's more snow on the way, and they can't guarantee food for us if the roads are cut off."

"It's probably for the best," she said. "Where will you go?"

"There's an old army camp up the coast. They're putting us there."

"You're doing the right thing."

"Do you think so? The town's a bit of a ruin right now, but I'm fond of it. I hope we won't be gone long."

"I hope so too." She smiled.

Martha spent the day helping the townsfolk load up the convoy, offering a smile, soothing a crying child, or helping a frantic parent. She chatted to grandmothers about things that happened long ago and to teenagers about things that were yet to come to pass. And when at

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last the convoy pulled out, there was a cheerful atmosphere, the townspeople full of strength and hope for the future. She waved at the last bus, then stood alone in the square, the snow around her reddened by the setting sun.

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Chapter 6

"Unfurl the sail!" Owen shouted. Cati scrambled over the deck and stood on top of the wheelhouse. Above her was the great wheel of the northern lights, and far, far below she could see mountains. For a moment she was paralyzed. One slip and she would be gone, tumbling into space.

"Cati!" Owen shouted. With frozen and trembling fingers she began to unfasten the ties that held the sail to the mast. After what seemed like an age, the sail opened out. She stepped back in wonder, almost forgetting that she was far above the ground. The sails were shimmering and translucent, much larger than the sails of any yacht. They appeared to reach out in front of the
Wayfarer
for hundreds of feet and to billow far above her. It seemed to Cati that the sails were made of the same magical substance as the northern lights themselves, if that was possible.

"Cati," Owen shouted again, and leapt forward,

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grabbing her jacket and pulling her back. In her wonder she had stepped to the edge of the wheelhouse roof.

"Sailing was never really my thing," she muttered, picking herself up from the deck, but Owen did not answer. He was absorbed in the movement of the
Wayfarer
, the way she rose and pitched and responded to the slightest movement of the tiller. He looked over the stern and saw that the land had disappeared and that they were now sailing over a great lake of time itself, the little tiller carving a trail of phosphorescence in the surface as they went.

For a while Owen delighted in the
Wayfarer
, feeling almost at one with the boat. If he wanted greater speed, he leaned forward and the sail grew even larger. If he leaned back, the boat slowed. The
Wayfarer
skimmed lightly along, but Owen could see that a less able craft would soon be in trouble. They started to scud up the sides of huge waves of dark matter and plunge down the other side. It felt as if they were sailing on an ancient and perilous sea.

"This is different from the first time, on the way back from Hadima," Cati said. It was true. Then, time had seemed shallow, like a river in the dry season, and they were always in danger of running aground. Now they could feel vast quantities of time to either side, and beneath their feet enormous depth.

"I think ..." Owen spoke hesitantly. He didn't really understand time, certainly not the way their friend Dr. Diamond did, and he was always afraid of being laughed at. "Well, do you remember the way the Harsh had